Unbreak my Heart
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: (One-Shot) If Sherlock had found his heart before he lost it, if John had stopped looking for normal and saw the value in what he already had, if they'd both seen through the other's masks and realized that their soulmate was standing right before them... what a different world that would have been. So brilliant, so perfect. (Reichenbach Fix-it)


I'm keeping the notes short on this one so you can go ahead and see what my muse insisted I write this week instead of continuing with the HLV-fest that is my series John's Vow...

Don't own Sherlock BBC yada, yada... don't own the song that inspired this fic either.

Thanks so much to Ariane De Vere and her transcripts, this fic (and many others, I'm sure) wouldn't exist without her.

I'm not British and have no beta, sorry for any mistakes, typos and anything else (if you point them out I'll correct them at the earliest opportunity).

If you can listen to the song Unbreak my Heart, by Toni Braxton, while reading this, it'll help you understand where my mind was as I wrote this (there's a really good male version in youtube too).

* * *

Unbreak my Heart

 _By: Lalaith Quetzalli_

 _If Sherlock had found his heart before he lost it, if John had stopped looking for normal and saw the value in what he already had, if they'd both seen through the other's masks and realized that their soulmate was standing right before them... what a different world that would have been. So brilliant, so perfect._

* * *

 _Take back that sad word good-bye  
Bring back the joy to my life  
Don't leave me here with these tears  
Come and kiss this pain away  
I can't forget the day you left  
Time is so unkind  
And life is so cruel without you here beside me_  
\- Tony Braxton, "Unbreak my Heart"

In one world Sherlock Holmes steps off the rooftop of St. Barts, John Watson screams from the ground, unable to do anything to save his flatmate/best friend/partner. The doctor searches for a pulse the consulting detective no longer seems to have, there are tears and denial and grief. A funeral and guilt, pleadings to a tombstone for a miracle, and a sense of not being able to breathe. In the end there is surrender, the moment when one man gives up and simply walks away.

And in that world, even when years later the death is pronounced nothing more than a magic trick and laughed as such, it's already too late. The doctor has moved on, and hard as the consulting detective might try, their chance is long since past, lost. They will never be able to truly meet in the middle again; will never be all they could have been... together.

In another world Sherlock Holmes finds his heart before the end, he finds his heart, his courage and decides to take a chance; and it's those actions that will change everything else in the end.

 **xXx**

" _Keep your eyes fixed on me." The voice on the other end of the line, high above him, was becoming frantic. "Please, will you do this for me?"  
_

" _Do what?" His mouth was going dry with tension.  
_

" _This phone call, it's... it's my note." The other stated with some hesitation. "It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"  
_

" _Leave a note when?" He shook his head, sharp with denial, though deep down he knew the reality of what was going on already.  
_

" _Goodbye, John."  
_

" _No. Don't."_

 _The phone stopped mattering then. The two stared at each other intensely, both wishing in some deep corner of their minds and souls that there was some way they could eliminate the distance between them, of a street and several floors, even as they knew it simply wasn't possible. It was too late to change what had already been set in motion._

 _And then a phone was thrown carelessly aside, arms splayed wide open, and a body was falling..._

John Watson woke up screaming the name of his flatmate/best friend/partner, like he had so many times since his fall; he refused to see it as him having jumped, having killed himself with no regard for his own life, or John's... because Sherlock was a genius, which means he must have known what his death would do to John, right? Or maybe he was so bad at feelings he hadn't seen it... or perhaps it was just that he did not care enough...

John let out a breath, it hurt too much to even contemplate the possibilities, unable to reassure himself of either option, whether it might be to be able to hate the dead man or finish mourn him properly... but no, it wasn't like that either, because deep down the doctor knew he could never truly hate the consulting detective, even if he'd really chosen to disregard John's feelings, his friendship, his... love, so completely. And regardless of how much time passed, it was unlikely the former army-captain would ever fully stop grieving him.

When John got out of the bed that morning he'd made up his mind. That was the last day. The last day he'd lose himself in his pain, his grief; the last day he'd remain detached from the world. Mrs. Hudson, Sarah and everyone else had remained so understanding ever since Sherlock's... since he was gone, but things couldn't stay like that forever. Eventually John had to move on. The world didn't stop turning just because Sherlock Holmes was dead... though a part of John couldn't help but feel it should.

It took no time at all for the doctor to pack his bags. Aside from a suitcase of clothes and a smaller bag with toiletries, a few books and scientific journals and other basic necessities (and his gun) he didn't have that much. Many years before he'd grown used to living with few things, and it was something he'd never grown out of. Especially when the flat had already been furnished and Sherlock had filled it with all his things. And even though a part of John couldn't help but feel attachment to a good few of them, he couldn't even contemplate taking the out of the flat. It would be like destroying the only home he knew.

While packing was relatively easy and took no time at all, John devoted the rest of the day to slowly saying his goodbyes. To the place, the objects, the memories, his home... the last object he laid eyes on was the skull above the fireplace, it brought back to him the memory of the first time he'd set foot in the flat:

" _That's a skull." Was what he'd said._

" _Friend of mine." Sherlock had replied nonchalantly, before revising. "When I say friend..."_

And that brought yet another memory, over a year after that:

" _Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

It made him feel so special, to have Sherlock acknowledge him as a friend, as his only friend... John wished it'd been enough.

He was about to turn his back on the skull, on everything, when a corner of his mind noticed something odd: a rolled up paper which had been slipped inside the skull through one of the eyes. John didn't know why it caught his attention so completely, but he just couldn't remember a time where there had been anything inside that skull. Nothing at all.

Driven by a mix of curiosity and something else the doctor couldn't name (not hope, he could never call it that, wouldn't dare), John slipped a hand inside and pulled it out. When he unrolled the paper and first laid eyes on the contents, he could have sworn, loudly; yet in the end the shock was so great all he could do was drop to his knees in absolute shock, the sheet of paper held so tightly in his hands he almost tore it in two without realizing.

It wasn't just any piece of paper, it was a letter, written with black fountain pen in an elegant, almost aristocratic calligraphy John knew painfully well: it was Sherlock's handwriting. And if finding that out wasn't shocking enough, the contents certainly were:

 ** _Dear John,_**

 ** _I'm sorry. If you read, if you believe nothing else I've written, believe this. I'm sorry. As I write this letter nothing has happened yet, but I know what's coming. I know Moriarty, I know his plans. He told me he owed me a fall, and something tells me that falling from grace in the eyes of the press and the public won't be enough for him. No, he's aiming higher and if things go as I expect them to, then I won't be there to explain things to you once all is said and done._**

 ** _The short of it is, if all went well, I'm not dead. Surprise? I'm not sure if this is the kind of thing you will want (if you'll even read this at all), but I have hope. You're not an idiot John, if anyone can find this letter it's you. So, there's a plan, there has always been a plan, and if it all went as expected, I'm not dead. Why didn't I tell you there was a plan? Why didn't I bring you in on it? Under normal circumstances I would expect you to be intelligent enough to be able to see the obvious, but I don't know how much my 'fall' might have affected you (for some reason I don't really like thinking about it, either)._**

 ** _Moriarty is insane John, you know that as well as I do. The original plan was to take him down and be done with it. But I now know it won't be that easy. We have contingencies, of course, and if you've found this letter, that means one was needed; one that included the need of me faking my death. Again, why didn't I tell you? Because there are too many eyes and too many ears, people who need to believe I am dead for everything to work out the way it's supposed to. And they're all on you._**

 ** _You're my witness and my proof John. As long as you act like I'm dead, they'll believe it; and as long as I'm dead you're safe, we both are. It's why I couldn't tell you. Your reaction had to be authentic, had to be enough to leave no doubts about what had happened._**

 ** _I should have just left things like that. If Mycroft ever finds out I wrote this letter he will not like it. He doesn't believe you can keep up the act... but I do. I trust you John, with both my life and your own. I believe you can know the truth and still convince those who might be watching that I'm dead._**

 ** _So that's why I faked my death, as for why I'm staying dead. I'm sure that one must be easy enough for you to understand. Moriarty isn't working alone, he never has been one to work alone... but this time a well-timed call won't be enough to steer him away from us. This time he needs to be taken down, as do all who might be working with him, who might be a threat, to you and to me. I must stay dead until it's done._**

 ** _I wish you could come with me. I truly do. But you must understand John, if you were to come, if you were to disappear, those watching you would have reason to be suspicious; and then their attention might turn onto others. Others would be in danger, like Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, possibly even your sister... I... we cannot allow that. I hope you understand. You're a soldier after all. You know about duty. Well, this is mine._**

 ** _I will come back, I cannot tell you when, I do not know myself, I cannot even give you any guarantees. But I do believe I will find my way back I hope_ _you'll wait for_ _me_ ****_to see you again when that day comes._**

 ** _You're my only friend John, never forget that._**

 ** _Yours,_**

 ** _Sherlock Holmes._**

John spent what seemed like a very long time just kneeling there on the carpet, in front of the fireplace, holding Sherlock's letter in his hands, as if trying to wrap his mind around it. Though, after having read the words, the explanation, it all seemed so obvious, like there was no other way things could have been.

And so, at the end of the day, John took a deep breath, picked up his bags and left 221B Baker Street, looking to all like a man moving out, trying to move on...

 **xXx**

Days passed, then weeks, months, years... until the day came when Sherlock Holmes was finally back in London. He was driven straight to the Diogenes Club after stepping off the private plane that had flown him all the way from Serbia (the last place where he'd been while hunting down the remains of Moriarty's web). There he could get a shower and back in his preferred silk shirt and bespoke suit. There were also people waiting for him to cut his hair back to his usual style and them shave his face smooth. He passed the time of his 'grooming' reading newspapers from the last few days to be up to date with events in London.

"You have been busy, haven't you?" Mycroft asked, almost mocking. "Quite the busy little bee."

"Moriarty's network..." Sherlock murmured stoically. "Took me two years to dismantle it."

Two years... at times it'd seemed like much longer, there had been days when he'd honestly felt like he might never be done, like he might never be able to return to John... but he was finally done, they were both safe. He could only hope John had found his letter, had believed him and maybe, just maybe, was waiting for Sherlock...

"And you're confident you have?" Mycroft's inquiry pulled him back to the present.

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle." Sherlock stated stoically.

"Yes. You got yourself in deep there..." Mycroft muttered, checking over his report.

Of course he couldn't leave it well enough alone. At least he didn't know that Sherlock had been so eager to return, to see John again, and that was what made him careless near the end of the mission. At the same time it was unlikely Mycroft would allow him to forget (delete) the fact that the politician had actually done leg-work and infiltrated the Serbian group himself (not that it had changed much, really, Sherlock had still been beaten and tortured for several days before he managed to pretty much 'talk his way out').

Sherlock endured Mycroft moaning about having to do field work himself. The conversation eventually turned to a case Mycroft wanted Sherlock to take. It appeared to be interesting enough, even though Sherlock most of the time turned down Mycroft's cases on principle alone. However, things got tense when Mycroft suggested that his brother remain 'dead' until the case was solved.

"No." Sherlock practically snarled in response. "No way. You're fixing it so I'm alive soon."

"Even if not for the case, it won't be an easy thing to 'bring you back to life' so-to-speak, brother dear." Mycroft said in a condescending tone. "While the good doctor was certainly a great help in clearing your name..."

Sherlock smirked at that one, he knew it irked Mycroft, how John managed to do that without any intervention of the Holmes, and without him even realizing that John could actually do it until it was all finished. Of course, Mycroft didn't know that John had made use of Sherlock's homeless Network, in his case offering free medical attention (no questions asked) in exchange of anything that might be useful in clearing the detective's name. It had been a pretty effective tactic, and Sherlock suspected that even after that was finished the Network had continued giving tidbits of information, anything they thought might be useful (judging by the unusual amount of cases the NSY had managed to solve without the consulting detective).

"It still won't be easy to get all the necessary paperwork done." Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock was briefly distracted as Anthea entered carrying Sherlock's Belstaff (a brand new one actually, done in Sherlock's exact measurements, since the old one had been completely ruined by the blood used in the detective's fake suicide).

"Fine." Sherlock shrugged as the coat settled on his shoulders. "I'll go see John, and I guess you can send us the information for the case to Baker Street."

"John?" The elder Holmes seemed honestly taken aback by that one.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering 'obviously' under his breath. "I'll surprise him today. He'll be delighted!"

"You think so?" Mycroft smiled cynically.

"Of course." The detective stated, with a smirk of his own.

"I hope you won't go looking for him at Baker Street." The politician was once again all fake smiles and condescending voice. "He doesn't live there anymore. And why would he? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

"What life?" Sherlock drawled, sounding to all like someone with complete disregard for one who was supposed to be a friend. "I've been away."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else.

Sherlock took the file Anthea was offering him, on John Watson, and which included a current address. He didn't let it show on the outside but deep inside he was smiling, it appeared that John really was that good an actor, so good that even Mycroft hadn't realized that the doctor knew the truth about the ruse (Sherlock refused to even contemplate the other possibility, he trusted John, he truly did).

 **xXx**

John was in his own flat, a small place he could pay on his own (and he still wouldn't be able to, if it weren't for the money Sherlock had moved into his account at some point before the 'fall'). Lestrade had just left after delivering a box of old things, mostly Sherlock's, which he'd found while unpacking his office (he'd finally regained his old rank as DI, after almost two years of demotion for the mess that had taken place with Brooke/Moriarty). Among the things there had been a DVD which was supposed to be the uncut version of the one Sherlock had recorded for John's last birthday before the fall.

The doctor rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself when hearing Sherlock talk about the essay he'd gifted him with (and really, that present had been more than a 'bit not good' at the time, but John knew it was just another example of his friend's brilliance), the excuse for his absence at the party and everything else.

"Right, I just... I need a moment to, um, figure out what I'm going to do." He said, sounding more than a bit hesitant.

"I can tell you what you can do." John muttered as he looked at the single glass of whiskey he'd poured himself. "You can stop being dead."

"Okay." The Sherlock in the video stated right then.

John looked up, straight at the screen, startled. Sherlock went out of focus briefly, but soon enough he was back again.

"Okay, I'm ready now." The consulting detective stated as he went to sit on his armchair, the window behind him, eyes straight on the camera. "Hallo, John." He smiled his public smile. "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment. I'm very busy. However, many happy returns."

John smiled wistfully at the memory and then, it was like the image on the screen blinked, or jumped, just briefly. It happened so fast he almost didn't notice, probably would have dismissed it completely if it weren't for the next words to come out of Sherlock's mouth:

"Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be with you again very soon."

John could only stare at the screen, as Sherlock smiled, it wasn't the same way as before, the smile was less obvious but at the same time warmer; the kind of smile he saved just for John, and then he winked. The doctor was absolutely certain that hadn't been part of the original video, not even of the so-called 'uncut version'. He was still trying to wrap his head around the possibilities when, quite suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Startled, John turned to the door, then back to the video, considering. He had no idea if Sherlock had switched videos before leaving London, after faking his death, at some point during the last two years or... was it possible? Was he back? Finally?

With great trepidation the doctor got off the small not-quite-comfortable couch and went to open the door, right as the doorbell rang for the third time.

And he was there. Almost like a dream, or some kind of hallucination. Standing right at the door, with his perfect alabaster skin, midnight curls and blue-green-honey eyes that glinted silver under a certain light; in his two-piece bespoke dark suit, a purple silk shirt that was either a size too small or simply the perfect size and a Belstaff coat.

John's mouth went dry, his mind blank, he almost stopped breathing altogether. Without quite noticing he opened his mouth, probably about to cry out his best friend's (something more?) name when a sharp look from him stopped him in his tracks. John had no idea what was going on, but Sherlock's look was enough to put him on alert so, after taking a quick look down each side of the hallway, making sure there was no one around, he pulled the supposedly dead consulting detective into the flat and closed the door.

"John...?" Sherlock began softly, somewhat hesitantly.

John didn't give him the chance to finish the sentence, not even the thought. He'd spent the last two years posing himself a single question: What would he do when Sherlock came back? (Granted, it'd begun as him wondering what he'd do if something like that were even possible, nothing more than wishful thinking, but that had all changed after the letter). He'd thought of many things, some violent, some humorous, and more than a few grounded in feelings he didn't even know he had, not for sure, until Sherlock was gone. But in that moment he knew, without a doubt. He didn't allow himself to doubt for a second, instead stepping forward, crowding the younger man against the wall, just beside the door, before taking hold of the collar of his coat again and pulling, this time downwards.

Sherlock's shock was evident in his wide eyes all of half a second before two mouths connected and two pairs of eyes closed in bliss.

 **xXx**

A few hours later Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in 221B Baker Street, the doctor already carrying two bags will all his things (the same two bags he'd carried out of 221B almost two years prior). It took them a few minutes to explain things to Mrs. Hudson. John had gone first, explaining things to the woman as softly and slowly as possible, not wanting to give her too much of a shock and affect her health or something. The moment she fully realized what it was John was telling her, she shrieked, demanding for the consulting detective to step in so she could give him a hug. Truth was Mrs. Hudson cared greatly for Sherlock, had for many years, almost like a second mother or a spoiling aunt. She was one of few people to accept the young genius with all his pros and cons, never trying to change him. There was no doubt of just why Moriarty had chosen her as leverage against Sherlock, along with Lestrade and, of course, John.

Eventually they left the woman to recover from the shock, after having had lunch with her. She was delighted to have them in the flat again. Hadn't been able to rent it to anyone in the last two years; the mere prospect of clearing out the place for a possible new tenant had been too much for her to even think of. And the realization that it wasn't just one of her boys coming back, but the both of them! And maybe they wouldn't even need the second bedroom this time...

Martha Hudson wasn't blind, neither of her boys might have said a thing about it, but there was something in the way they held themselves, the way they stood beside each other... She'd known all along that there was a connection between the two. A potential for something amazing... but the boys hadn't done anything about it for so long. And then Moriarty, and the press and the fall. But it seemed that, finally, after two years of absence, her boys had decided to get their heads out of their backsides and see what was right before them. She'd heard rumors, Mrs. Turner claimed to have seen John having dinner with some blonde woman the week before, but Mrs. Hudson just knew it wasn't possible, John loved Sherlock too much, even when they'd both believed him to be dead, he wouldn't just move on, it wasn't in his nature, that much had become obvious just after the first week of the detective's 'death'.

With that thought in mind Mrs. Hudson decided she would make a treacle tart, she knew both of her boys would like that; and while she certainly wasn't their housekeeper, she still liked to spoil them every now and again.

An hour or so later, John was fixing tea when the door opened with no knocking beforehand. He knew what it meant: Mycroft had arrived. It was quite easy to simply add a third cup of tea and then bring all of it out into the sitting room in a tray. He even had some scones Mrs. Hudson had insisted they take with them earlier.

Indeed, Mycroft was there. He'd taken a seat in John's chair, regardless of Sherlock's silent glares and the fact that John himself had entered the room.

"Dr. Watson." The elder Holmes greeted him in his well-practiced tone. "What a surprise to see you here! I would have expected you would be getting ready for your date with that charming young nurse, what's her name? Mary?"

"I'm quite sure you know her name is Mary Morstan, Mycroft." John replied calmly, refusing to rise to Mycroft's bait. "I called her earlier to tell her it was over."

"Just like that?" Mycroft seemed to be honestly taken aback by that, much as he was trying to hide it. "Sherlock comes back, with no warning, and you drop everything to follow him again? Cut off any chance at having a wife, a family... a normal life?"

John couldn't help himself, he snorted.

"Please, if I wanted a normal life I would have never moved in with him." He pointed at Sherlock with a smirk. "As for Mary. It was never serious. From the start we both knew what each of us wanted. I needed a friend, and she someone who might help her make her old boyfriend jealous. We both understood that it would be over any day, without any prior warning. So..."

John didn't even point out to the whole thing with the armchair. Instead he just fixed Sherlock's tea exactly as he liked it, fixed his own cup and then went to sit on the armrest of his flatmate's own chair, signaling for Mycroft to fix his own tea however he liked.

They sat there, looking at one another in absolute silence for what seemed like forever. In the end John couldn't help himself, he smiled.

"You knew!" Mycroft blurted out, in a tone that really, really wasn't a whine.

John didn't answer verbally, just allowed the smile adorning his lips to widen before he hid it behind his cup as he took a sip of tea. Sherlock himself smirked at his brother with a sense of obvious triumph and satisfaction.

"How...?" The politician seemed to be honestly at a loss, probably for the first time ever.

The other two didn't say anything, just drinking their tea and eating one or two scones while giving the older man time to fully grasp reality. The fact that John Watson had known the truth about the 'fall' for god-knows how long and Mycroft hadn't realized it. The man had kept up the act to such a point he hadn't only tricked those from Moriarty's web who might have been keeping an eye on him, but also those who'd been on Sherlock's side, like Mycroft himself.

"I told you, you couldn't tell him." Mycroft finally began talking, chiding Sherlock. "For your own good as well as his!"

"Oh please Mycroft!" Sherlock spat.

John himself was angry, at the attitude Mycroft was taking, his tone of voice, it was almost like he was trying to treat his brother like a child, and the doctor didn't like that.

"You're just getting snippy because you didn't realize I knew anything." The former army captain said eventually in his most condescending tone. "Losing faculties in your old age, Mycroft?"

The laughter that came out of Sherlock's mouth at that was loud, boisterous and absolutely sincere. It also surprised both older men, as they'd never heard the consulting detective laugh like that. Then again, John had never spoken to Mycroft like that...

"I don't see how any of this is funny!" Mycroft really was whining by that point. "Do you realize how stupid and dangerous that was? Can you comprehend..."

"That's enough Mycroft." John cut him off coldly. "It's one thing to complain about your brother doing things behind your back, another entirely to try and chastise him as if he were an unruly eight-year-old."

"If he didn't act like a child I wouldn't treat him as such!" Mycroft retorted.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Why are you really angry Mycroft?" He asked. "Because he put himself in danger? Do you really think so little of me? Believe that I would ever do anything that might put Sherlock's life at risk? And think your answer very carefully, because I'm already annoyed with you, and it will only get worse."

"There's no need for any of that John." Sherlock assured him, still smiling at the whole thing. "Mycroft is just having a fit because you're so good an actor he couldn't tell you knew at any point in the last two years!"

Mycroft's eyes widened almost comically as he took that in, the fact that John Watson had known the truth almost from the start... he just might be losing faculties.

"It was never an act with me." John said, suddenly serious. "It wasn't a game." He looked straight at the elder Holmes as he explained. "I knew exactly what was at stake: my life, and Sherlock's. Whatever you might think of me, at least he knows he can trust me. Why do you think I moved into a small flat in a low income neighborhood where many people come and go at all hours of the day and night? Or why I made sure to appear completely unsociable to my neighbors until they stopped trying to get to know me? Why I got into a 'relationship' of sorts that never included anything more than some lunches and dinners, and sometimes a movie? I never even stayed over, or had her at my place. Why I took so many supplies to my place? Much as it might have been useful when I treated the homeless on the side, they weren't the main reason. Not really."

"You were ready for Sherlock." Mycroft murmured in sudden understanding. "In a place where he could have arrived without calling any attention, where no one would ask any questions, no one would know. And even if he didn't know where to find you, the homeless did."

And a girlfriend that kept his colleagues at work and old friends (like Mike and Greg) from worrying about him or asking questions, without it being anything serious.

John Watson had done everything in his power to make sure no one would have any reason to suspect the 'trick', and at the same time ready for the moment Sherlock might come back, and whatever condition he might be in when he did.

"It appears I have truly underestimated you Dr. Watson... John." Mycroft admitted after what seemed like forever. "I'll endeavor not to do so again."

 **xXx**

After Mycroft had left John and Sherlock seemed somewhat bereft for a while. John made sure to dust the flat, while Sherlock pulled his equipment out of the cupboards where it had been packed away after the 'fall'. On the sitting room table lay a folder with the information needed for the case, but the two had wordlessly decided they didn't have the focus to work on anything serious in that moment. So instead they did this and that, trying very hard not to think about what they would have to do eventually. Until there was nothing else to do. John went to his bags, which he'd left at the foot of the stairs leading to the top floor and his old bedroom. He let out a breath and went to pick them up, when something completely unexpected happened to him.

John wasn't even conscious of what was going on, but he just suddenly found himself being pressed against the wall, warmth all around him, upon him, delicate yet strong hands holding his hips tight enough they'd probably leave bruises, the tips of the fingers grazing the top of his bum; and a mouth devouring his own with soul-searing intensity.

John just couldn't help himself, he could hear the sound echoing around him, and the vibrations inside him confirmed the rather loud moan had just come from the back of his own throat.

"John..." Sherlock finally spoke, breathless, his lips almost touching the shorter man's ear. "If this is not what you want... you need to tell me now..."

"Yes." John gasped out, the word half lost in another moan. "I want this... want you. There's nothing I've ever wanted more... nothing I'll ever want more... Sherlock... please..."

That seemed to be all the consulting detective needed before he took the older man's mouth again, an assertiveness he'd never practiced on anything that weren't his cases (or, perhaps, annoying his brother). In no time at all John could feel the edge of a bed hitting the back of his knees; when he went down he made sure to pull on Sherlock just hard enough for both of to end up on the bed in a tangle of limbs.

It wasn't easy, taking off their clothes while being horizontal, especially since both of them seemed intent on doing so without stopping their kisses and caresses. Somehow they managed, eventually. It didn't really matter how long it took them though, they had all the time in the world. Granted, they still needed to talk about what was going on, probably also about what each of them had been through in the last two years, there was a case to solve, and then there would be a 'resurrection' and the consequences of that to deal with... but in the most basic of levels, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were together again, in the way they'd always been meant to be, and that made everything else secondary.

That night everything changed, between the consulting detective and his blogger, in ways that neither of them could have actually planned, though both of them had been wishing for, deep inside, almost from the start (even if it had taken each of them a long time to see it, and then admit it to themselves). And it all started with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath finding his heart, his courage and taking a chance. It had all started with a letter hidden in a skull and the doctor who made a choice to wait for the one man who'd saved him I every way possible, who showed him everything he, everything they both could be.

As it happens, Mrs. Hudson was right, they didn't really need that second bedroom again.

 **xXx**

In one world Sherlock Holmes and John Watson live their lives as former flatmates, friends, who ever so slowly grow apart, as friends are wont to do; though deep down they always wonder what could have been, at opportunities lost, wasted... until the day when each of them pass away, in loneliness and sadness, two more men who never fully realized their dreams.

But in another world Sherlock Holmes and John Watson return to 221 Baker Street as the couple most have always believed them be. They have their good times and their bad. Moments when one of them is unbearable and the other wants to kill him, or when one misses something and the other gets annoyed over it... but at the end of the day they always lay together in the same bed, limbs entwined, secure in the knowledge that nothing and no one will ever tear them apart.

One day they'll leave behind their lives in London as consulting detectives, retire to a cottage in Sussex and spend their retirement either working with bees or writing books of their incredible adventures. And when the time comes for them to leave this life, they will do so together, as they were always meant to be, hand in hand facing their next great adventure.

* * *

 **Unbreak my Heart**

 _Toni Braxton_

Don't leave me in all this pain  
Don't leave me out in the rain  
Come back and bring back my smile  
Come and take these tears away  
I need your arms to hold me now  
The nights are so unkind  
Bring back those nights when I held you beside me

Un-break my heart  
Say you'll love me again  
Undo this hurt you caused  
When you walked out the door  
And walked out of my life  
Un-cry these tears  
I cried so many nights  
Un-break my heart  
My heart

Take back that sad word good-bye  
Bring back the joy to my life  
Don't leave me here with these tears  
Come and kiss this pain away  
I can't forget the day you left  
Time is so unkind  
And life is so cruel without you here beside me

Un-break my heart  
Say you'll love me again  
Undo this hurt you caused  
When you walked out the door  
And walked out of my life  
Un-cry these tears  
I cried so many nights  
Un-break my heart  
My heart

Don't leave me in all this pain  
Don't leave me out in the rain  
Bring back the nights when I held you beside me

Un-break my heart  
Say you'll love me again  
Undo this hurt you caused  
When you walked out the door  
And walked out of my life  
Un-cry this tears  
I cried so many, many nights  
Un-break my

Un-break my heart oh baby  
Come back and say you love me  
Un-break my heart  
Sweet darlin'  
Without you I just can't go on  
Can't go on...

* * *

The lyrics at the end were meant to help, in case you couldn't listen to the song, or even if you did, if you want to know more about it. I swear that I heard just a piece of it somewhere and suddenly I couldn't get it out of my head, and I could see johnlock so clearly in it... I listened to it (the original, the male version as well as an instrumental and a violin cover) over and over for three days, I swear. It took me a day or so to plan this and two more to write it. I hope you liked it.

I know it's not much, and I could have probably gone into more of the third season, but I honestly couldn't think of it. Being objective here, Empty Hearse would go pretty much the same (at least the parts I didn't change already with my version of the reunion), the Sign of Three wouldn't happen, except perhaps a much more johnlock version of the stag night, maybe; and His Last Vow definitely wouldn't happen here so, yeah. Also, one of the first things I decided when I was planning the story was the beginning and the ending lines, the mix of one world and another, and I didn't want to change that.

I really hope you liked this, please do not forget to comment/review and whatever you might wish to do. Please, I so enjoy hearing of people who might like. You're the whole reason why I do all I do!


End file.
